


bark to smoke, wood to ash

by adietxt



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Internalized Transphobia, Transgender Sanji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26047930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adietxt/pseuds/adietxt
Summary: Brother.The word clung to you, dirty and foreign, seeping under your skin like mud. It has sullied you into something you’re not.(You are not, you know — you are not anyone’sbrother. You’re not a —)
Relationships: Roronoa Zoro/Vinsmoke Sanji
Comments: 32
Kudos: 338





	bark to smoke, wood to ash

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for Anne. Thank you for trusting your story with me and I’m sorry dysphoria has been kicking your ass — hope this helps in some way.
> 
> Title from the poem [On Trans](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/57983/on-trans) by Miller Oberman.

**one**.

You are eight and the words that fall out of your brothers’ mouth hurt like gravels, like acid, like gunshot wounds. They call you _useless_ and it tears at your skin, they call you _weak_ and it rings inside your ears for days. The bruises on your skin fade, but the words claw underneath, bone-deep, like a phantom scar.

_A failure. A burden. A mistake. A mistake —_

_Brother_.

You don’t know what’s wrong with the last one. It isn’t one of the bad words your mother taught you not to say, and your brothers never said it with the tone and derision they reserved for your name. _Brother_. Almost in passing, like an afterthought.

The word clung to you anyway, dirty and foreign, seeping under your skin like mud. It has sullied you into something you’re not.

(You are not, you know — you are _not_ anyone’s brother. You’re not a —)

* * *

**two**.

You are thirteen when you realize that you hate the way you look in the mirror. You know you always do, at the back of your mind, but it’s the first time that it catches you off guard; there’s bile at the back of your throat, and you almost drive your leg through the vanity, shattering the ugly image staring back from the surface.

Zeff has just started giving you salaries — _actual_ salaries instead of the meager pocket money they used to be — so the first thing you do is to visit the town’s market.

You are a boy, so you get yourself a couple of men’s shoes, loafers and dress shoes, oxfords and sandals. You are a boy, so you pick up the three-piece suits and vests, the kind a gentleman would wear. You are a boy, so you walk past the nail polish and lipsticks, and you don’t wonder how they would look against your pale skin, if they should match the dresses you will never wear.

You narrow your eyes at your own reflection, rubbing your chin, feeling the beginning of a stubble under your fingers. Your chest is a flat and narrow thing, every part of your body telling you what you have heard a thousand times before — _you’re a boy. You’re a boy. You’re a boy_. 

(You are a boy because you don’t know what else you could be.)

* * *

**three**.

You are sixteen and nobody tells you you’re beautiful; they call you handsome and strong and clean-shaven and many other words that don’t settle right at the pit of your stomach. _A good husband,_ one over-eager patron once said to her blushing teenage daughter; _a rough delinquent_ , most shopkeepers would say behind your back after you’ve haggled their prices one too many times; _a handsome boy_ , some of Zeff’s old associates would sometimes say, a clumsy attempt to praise you. You hate the last one the most.

You are sixteen and you fall for the first boy who calls you beautiful.

He’s a boy from the next village, a year older than you are, sharp-tongued and sharper smile. He visits on Saturdays as his parents go to the island’s marketplace, a few ways down the street from Baratie, and when he kisses you behind a passing cart he tastes like a brilliant supernova.

 _Beautiful_ , he calls you, and for the first time a word slides off your skin like honey. _Beautiful_ , he whispers to your lips, and it warms you from the inside, right in the very center of your chest. _Beautiful_ , he presses against your skin, and you close your eyes and take it all in, the way the word fits right in between your rib cage, tucked neatly against your heart.

It doesn’t last. He also calls you his man.

(You’re not _his man_. You’re not _anyone’s_ man. You’re not a _man_ —)

* * *

**four.**

Today’s celebration is more crowded than you are used to, which says a _lot_ , considering how it usually goes with the Strawhats. Luffy, you are quick to learn, always finds a way to surprise you.

You’re carrying five plates on one hand and three glasses of beer on the other, half-tiptoeing to avoid stepping on people’s feet. Some of the locals wave at you, complimenting you on the food, and you don’t notice Nami among the crowd until she’s pressed against you, her breasts digging into the crevice of your back as someone pushes her from behind.

You feel a shock of jealousy burst through you.

It is shocking, in its suddenness. There is nothing inherently sexual with the thought; you’ve always been attracted to men and women alike, in the safety of your own mind — but this is something entirely different. You are suddenly aware of your adam’s apple, your flat chest, your dick between your legs; how they’re wrong wrong wrong — 

She must’ve felt the way you stiffened, because she leaps back in surprise and stammers out an apology. You want to tell her that it’s fine, but for once, you can’t. There are a lot of people you can lie to but not her, who’s been carved open with nothing but lies.

“I can’t,” you tell her; no longer caring if you don’t even make sense. “Nami-san, I can’t —”

Something erupts among the crowd, and Luffy emerges from it a moment later, always the center of attention. Nami’s instantly distracted, and you have never been more glad of Luffy’s natural proclivity for trouble.

You chase after him, and try not to think of the way envy curls coldly in your chest.

(For the first time in your life, you dare to _want —)_

* * *

**five**.

They force you to wear a dress and you run.

It’s wrong, you try to tell yourself, because men don’t wear skirts and you may be a failure to Judge but you won’t be one to Zeff. It’s wrong, you try to tell them, to every single resident of this cursed island of Momoiro, and they look at you with _pity_ , and you hate them for it. It’s wrong, you try to tell someone, _anyone_ who would listen, because you don’t know what else it could be.

So you run.

You run and you feel the silk of the dress slide against the inside of your thighs, the bra tight around your chest, the straps of your panties dig into your hips. You wonder if they would leave marks against your skin, the kind that’s red and stark and doesn’t disappear for days, like they have become a part of you somehow.

You run because you know it’s wrong.

(You run because it _doesn’t_ feel wrong.)

* * *

**six.**

Zoro is terrible. A brute, a dumbass, an _oaf_ — you hate his guts, you hate his voice, and you hate the way he always knows the right words to set you off into a tirade. He is loud and brash and everything a _man_ is supposed to be and you hate that, too — like a constant reminder of who you aren’t, of who you’re _supposed to be_.

He also looks at you like you’re an equal, like someone he can depend on when all else fails. He pushes you towards your dream and never expects any less than the best; when the two of you stand side-by-side, something in your blood sings, like you are strong enough to take on the world.

That part — you don’t hate that.

(Zoro is terrible, _but_ —)

* * *

**seven.**

Your stomach drops when your eyes meet Zoro’s.

 _He’s not supposed to be here_ , you want to think, but in hindsight, why _shouldn’t_ he, when the tavern they are in seems to be the only establishment in this quaint little town that offers alcohol on its menu. _Of course_ that brute is here.

 _You_ should’ve known better than to risk it. 

You are not wearing the — the _whole thing_ , thankfully; the red dress from Momoiro still safely tucked at the corner of your locker, never to see the light of day. But your hair is shoulder-length and your nails are in three different colors, and you are at least five-inches taller than him because of the heels you are wearing. Zoro’s a dumbass with only one good eye left, but he’s not _blind_.

Zoro blinks, does a once-over. You wait for the other shoe to drop, for the disgust to crawl up his expression like poison ivy, but it never comes; he simply tilts his head to the side, more confused than anything.

The first thing he asks is, “How did you get your hair so long?”

“It’s called a _wig_ , dumbass,” you retort, the banter between you two coming as naturally as breathing, even when your heart is pounding against your ribcage. “It’s like — fake hair, basically. Not that you’d know anything about fashion.”

Zoro scrunches up his nose, and he’s wearing that expression he always wears whenever someone tells him to count higher than ten. You usually find it hilarious, just one more thing to tease him about, but right now it is comforting in its familiarity. The disgust that you have long dreaded never seems to appear, and you feel tension slowly bleed over your shoulders.

“Huh,” Zoro says after a moment. A blush blooms across his cheeks, and he sounds almost embarrassed when he says, “suits you.”

(You remember being sixteen, falling in love with the boy who called you beautiful.)

* * *

**eight.**

“Please change us back!” Nami calls out to Law, and you feel your blood runs cold. You know it’s selfish, that none of these is yours, the breasts and the curves and the long, soft fingers; but you can’t help begging still, _please don’t please don’t please don’t please —_

Law still turns you back.

You fall to your knees. Nami thought it was from the physical wounds she’d received before Law switched you back, and you let her think that way. Your hands will not stop shaking for the rest of the day, and you tell Chopper that it’s the cold.

( _This is not your body_ , your brain traitorously whispers, persistent. _It’s never been the right body for you_ —)

* * *

**nine.**

Zoro slips his hand under your shirt, and you groan at that, pleased — you’ve been making out for what seems like forever now, and the way his finger brushes against your nipple is a welcome development. His mouth starts to trail down your neck, and you tug on his _haramaki_ , urging him on. This thing between you two — whatever _this_ is — has been long-overdue, and you feel like a second without the two of you naked is just another second wasted.

You slip out of your pants without thinking, and your breath hitches when you realize you’re still wearing your panties.

Zoro seems to notice your discomfort, because his hands immediately still. He looks up at you, eye searching, and you find it sweet, the way he’d stop if you tell him to stop. You don’t want him to, of course, if the arousal pooling at the bottom of your stomach is any indication; but you like knowing that you have the choice. You can count on one hand the number of times you’re able to do that — making choices, that is.

You know that you don’t need to explain anything, when it comes to Zoro. You have that choice too. He has always been good at giving people space, and you know he will wait until you are ready to say anything. But you look at the man in front of you who has never been anything but honest, and the words claw out of your throat before you can think twice.

“I’m a woman.”

Your voice is small and confused. Your throat burns, like the words have been scraped raw from its walls.

Zoro doesn’t say anything at first, and you tear your eyes away from him, because you’ve never been scared of him but you don’t think you can stand it if he starts to look at you different. You think of your pathetic excuse of a family, their cold eyes and colder shoulders, and you don’t know if you can go through another heartbreak. You know the Strawhats are better than this — better than _them_ — but you can’t help thinking what if, what if, what if — 

“Okay,” Zoro says. And, “Thanks for telling me.”

You exhale, then. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath.

He fucks you into the bed, long and sweet, softer than you’d ever expect him capable of. He holds your hand after, and the two of you lie on the bed, chests pressed against one another’s under the covers of a warm blanket. He breathes out when you breathe in.

For the first time in a long while, the king of Germa doesn’t haunt you.

(You are not his _son_ , and you have never been _his._ )

* * *

**ten.**

“You ready?”

Zoro is leaning against the door frame, waiting for you, but you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from the mirror yet. You watch the way your _kimono_ hugs your frame, thick and rigid; nobody could’ve seen any curves, even if you had one. That’s the point, you’ve been told — this is Wano’s idea of a woman’s beauty. Femininity through modesty. It’s different from most concepts you’ve heard of femininity, and you like that — that there isn’t one way to be a woman, that there is no mold to fit in for you to be one.

“Yes,” you say, and you let him lead you towards the door.

(You are a woman, and you have never been anything else.)

* * *


End file.
